


lurched like a stray to the arms that were open

by swimthewholeriogrande



Series: Call This Living [4]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Night Terrors, Post-Prison, Prison, True Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:21:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimthewholeriogrande/pseuds/swimthewholeriogrande
Summary: Amy's perspective from the outside of a cage.





	lurched like a stray to the arms that were open

He's thinner.

He seems to be getting thinner every time. Amy picks at her cuticles until they redden as Jake walks towards the table to see her for the first time in three weeks; he's moving with an odd, loping gait, like his left side is injured, and the patchy, scruffy beard does nothing to hide the high arches of his cheekbones. His face breaks into a smile though, electrifying, and she stands up to hug him. 

Jake smells like disinfectant and the plain, gritty soap of the prison. Amy still breathes him in deep, curling her fingers into his shirt. She doesn't want to let go, not when his arms are so tight around her. 

They only break apart when the guard coughs meaningfully, and even then she keeps her knees against his under the table. "I missed you," she blurts out, and Jake smiles again.

"I missed you too." No matter what he looks like, his voice is the same, and his eyes are crinkled up with happiness to see her; it makes her glow. "How are you, babe?"

Amy pauses for a split second; what to tell him? The case is going nowhere fast, and every night she sleeps in an empty bed where his presence is fading by the day. But he's going through hell, she knows that, and anything that makes it easier for him is worth the pain. "I'm good, Jake." she affirms gently. "Are you doing okay in here?"

His eyes slide away; the crinkle around them is gone. "Yeah, doing okay." He laughs a little and rubs the back of his neck. "Like summer camp, right?"

They talk a little more, back and forth, as in depth as they can with the guard two feet away. When a half hour is up, he tells Jake to get a move on, and Amy can actually see Jake shrink away, his shoulders hunching like he's trying to hide. Her chest aches. 

"Well, um." He stands, and she does too, and he looks so lost. "Guess I'll see you next time, Ames."

"I love you," she tells him quickly, needing him to hear it before he draws back. He nods, and smiles again, but it looks sore.

"Love you too." Jake meets her eyes for a moment, then looks away. "Come again soon."

When he walks away he has the same odd, pained pace; Amy watches him go and feels every slow, jerky step as her own.

-

Three more weeks go by and Amy is buried in files, years deep in every detail of every single one of Hawkins' cases, looking for any discrepancies. The jail is an hour away; she hates to admit it, but she can't go.

"I'm so sorry," she tells him on the phone, the line crackling and spitting in her ear. "I'm only at, uh, 1997 right now. I need to get these done."

Jake sounds tired. "Don't apologise, Ames. _I'm_ sorry you have to work so hard on the case. How's it going?"

Slow. Arduous. Uneventful. And so far, yielding no results. "We're getting there!" she tells him. "We got you. Don't worry."

"I won't." His voice is warm suddenly, and Amy feels the heat in her chest, a flame that doesn't flicker. "Not with you in my corner."

But then it's three more weeks, and on the drive to the prison she's almost scared. She told Charles not to come. She's afraid that he'd blurt out something about how Jake looks, and Amy's pretty sure he won't look good.

She's right.

Instead of walking awkwardly, Jake is completely limping this time, his foot dragging behind him, and his face is bruised and cut. She sees the guard clap his shoulder, and Jake's teeth bare in supposed pain - Amy is halfway out of her seat before Jake finally reaches the table.

"Don't." he says before she can say a word. "Don't ask, please."

Amy watches in horror as he sits, slow and stiff. There's a barely healed scab that keeps catching her eye, black-blood red. "Jake," she breathes, "how can I not ask? What happened?"

Jake left eye is blooming blue. "I had to do something." he mutters, leaning across the table. "Or I tried, at least, but it didn't work. It was pointless." His face is hard and cruel, so foreign to her. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters!" Amy half-shouts, and doesn't miss how Jake flinches away, his hands curling into fists. She swallows hard and tries to calm down, but it's hard when Jake looks like he's gone through a pinball machine.

"Look," he hisses, like he's trying to cover up whatever's happening with anger, "I was trying to get a video of this asshole guard beating me up, okay? I needed leverage. But it didn't work. I don't want to talk about it."

Amy's body is locking up. She reaches for Jake's hand and, thank God, he doesn't pull away. She probably holds it way too hard, but he grips hers just as tight. "Jake," she breathes, "that shouldn't be happening, babe. That's so, so wrong."

Jake appears to melt at the slightest bit of sympathy; the tension ebbs out of his face and shoulders, and he sighs heavily. "I know." His split lip pulls and beads with blood. "I know, but there's nothing we can do. Please, please don't say anything."

Amy promises she won't, but how could she possibly not? Abuse of power is obviously not unheard of in the correctional department, but she knows - she thinks she knows - that the best way to handle it is to go straight to the top. That's how she always does it.

So she does, and two days later Jake calls her on his illegal phone at 3a.m. Before she can speak he lets out a wet cough, long and painful, and she hears that he's crying. He's crying and she is so far away from him.

"Ames," he chokes out, "Amy, I told you not to say anything."

"Fuck." The swear slips out of her unbidden. She sits bolt upright in bed. "Jake, I didn't mean to - what -"

Another hacking cough; she can almost hear the blood in his mouth. "Amy, just, please leave it, okay?" he asks desperately, and then there's a scuffle and he says urgently, "I have to go," and he's gone.

He's gone.

-

The day that Jake gets out of prison is the best and worst day of Amy's life. It's the best because she can hug Jake and not let go, and drive him away from the prison as fast as the car will go; she brings him home to their apartment and kisses him hard and no one breaks them apart.

It's also the worst because Jake looks so uncertain in their home, like every room is foreign. When she asks him what he wants for dinner, he looks more confused that she's ever seen him. 

"I get to choose." he says, half a question and half reassurance, and Amy tries to smile and nod but it hurts.

It's the worst because that night she's so happy to not be sleeping alone, but at about 3a.m he wakes up and scares the shit out of her. He's thrashing and mumbling intelligibly, and when Amy touches him he bolts out of bed and into the corner.

Amy is perfectly still; Jake is too, but she can see his eyes shining in the faint light coming through the blinds, the slatted glow over his heaving chest. She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know how to make this - make him - better.

"Come back to bed." she says finally, softly. "I've got you, Jake. It's okay."

And he does.


End file.
